


An Ancient Tradition

by guineaDogs, orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Drunk and Disorderly, Gen, Homoeroticism, M/M, Randy Week, Randy Week 2019, Turkish Oil Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 07:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Randy Week Day 2: Drunk/HighInspired by the rise and fall of the W.T.F. and a case of beer, Randy and Gerald decide to have a go at a time-honored sport





	An Ancient Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally the best thing either of us have ever written and we hope you enjoy.

"The boys were really into that wrestling thing," Gerald commented, tossing a stick in the bonfire as he finished off his... Well, if Sheila asked, it was only his second beer, but judging at the pile of cans between himself and Randy, it was far from it. 

"_ Yee-ahp, _ " Randy responded, clenching the can far too tightly as he chugged his beer. "Stan was going on about how he thought they were gonna go pro- _ wrasslin _ or something. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up."

Gerald crushed his can in his hand. Well, sort of. His grip strength had never been that great, considering he hadn't stepped foot out of his office, a courtroom, or his home in years, save for that disastrous fishing trip with Stewart a couple years ago. It crumpled a bit, and he winced when the aluminum poked his hand.

"Yeah," he began, tossing it into the pile and cracking open another, "They're too young. You know something, Randy, I bet I could give 'em a run for their money."

It was drunk talk, and Gerald knew it. He was far from an athletic man.

The thing was, _ drunk talk _ was normal talk for Randy. Gerald should have kept that in mind, but drinking meant that he wasn't really thinking. He only realized his error when Randy spoke, literally a moment later.

"We both could. I'm still in the best shape of my life—we should call the boys out now, have them watch us. Show 'em what _ real _ wrasslin is."

_ "Tch." _ Gerald shook his head, and swigged his local craft brew. "Silly idea, don't you think?"

It wasn't. It was fucking _ genius, _ and they both knew it. Gerald could tell when their eyes, glazed over with drink, locked. He tried to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach when that happened. He didn't want a repeat of that goddamn hot tub experience... did he?

Nevermind that. This was _ different. _ This was gonna be an all out war. "I think—" he paused to burp— "That I'd be, I dunno, some kinda like.... some kinda..." He made a vague gesture with his hands that only made sense to him. "Like Aquaman, yanno? If I was a wrestler. They have those personas, yeah?"

"Yeah they got personas and whole character lines—Aquaman, 'cause you were a dolphin that one time?" Randy popped the tab on another cold one, and something about the way Randy did it made Gerald's cheeks burn. He couldn't let himself dwell on _ that _ too much.

"I guess. I just think it really suits me."

"Yeah. I'd be a fuckin... I wanna be a cowboy, bay-bee," Randy said finally, as if he were trying to channel Kid Rock right then. "My theme when I enter the arena? Save a horse, ride a cowboy."

Gerald didn't know what came over him in that moment. Well, he did. It was a combination of alcohol and pure adrenaline that made him abruptly rise to his feet, slam his IPA straight down his gullet, and scream a carefree, enthusiastic _ Woohoo! _ to the starry night sky.

This seemed to inspire Randy. In a flash, he was on his feet, his lawn chair flying out from underneath him to lay askew on the dewy grass. He staggered, chugged his beer in one fell swoop, and cheered as he ripped open his shirt.

"We should do it," Gerald said, laughing. He felt positively _ giddy _ and he couldn't remember the last time he felt this great. "We should wrestle. We don't have an arena but—"

"—I have an idea," Randy interrupted. "Just hear me out. Stan's old kiddie pool is in the garage. I've got more olive oil than I know what to do with... and you know, oil wrestling is a time-honored and well respected sport. It's like football. It's not gay if you happen to touch on another dude's junk."

"I dunno, man, that sounds a little bit gay." Gerald couldn't deny that the fact it sounded a little bit gay was part of the allure for him. Ever since that night in the hot tub, he'd been having difficulties shaking the feel of Randy's hairy chest, of his fuzzy, slight beer gut. 

"No, _ no, _ listen. It's not gay, and I _ know _ it's not gay. It's a classy, culturally significant sport. It's the national sport of Turkey, which I learned watching PBS."

"PBS is publicly funded..."

"Exactly!" Randy exclaimed, insistent. "That means you know it's true and correct. It's totally not gay at all. We're just appreciating Turkish culture instead of just appropriating their delights all the time."

"Yeah!" Randy knew much more about cultural appropriation than Gerald... he _ was _ PC, after all. "It's gonna be.... like... are there rules or somethin'? There's gotta be rules."

"Oh, oh yeah. There's rules." Randy clapped Gerald on the shoulder, clumsily and roughly. "You gotta wear, like, they wear these belt things. And one guy's gotta get a grab on the other guy's belt. I guess it's more like a strap. Or underwear. We can just wear underwear. It's the closest we can get to honoring this tradition."

"Oh. Okay." He might have thought about it more in another situation, but he wasn't capable of thinking coherently right now. Gerald could only _ act, _ nearly tripping over himself to strip down to his Hanes underwear. "I'm ready."

"Hell yeah! Let's go get the pool and oil." Randy raised his fist into the air, kicking away his pants, as he headed toward his house with purpose.

Randy explained, on the way, that he'd obtained his stash of extra-virgin olive oil from amazon.com. They had a sale, and he was dedicated to the culinary arts. Well, he was at the time. It ended up being another one of his passing phases, although he bragged that he could still make a mean quiche, and mumbled something about _ creme fraiche _ in a voice that made Gerald's spine feel all... funny. They found the olive oil, in a large, heavy tin, under the sink, next to some cleaning products.

It was far more olive oil than Gerald thought was necessary, a whole gallon of it. But Randy was the town expert on... well, everything, so Gerald felt it prudent to follow his lead. The next step was obtaining the kiddie pool from the garage, which was nestled near Randy's tools, under tarps and random shit that had accumulated back there. It meant the pool wasn't exactly clean, but considering they were about to lube up their bodies with olive oil... it was probably fine.

Not only was the pool covered in a thin layer of dirt and dust, they discovered, upon laying it down on the Marsh’s front lawn, that it was unable to pop up to its full potential—one of the sides had a kink in it that just wouldn’t straighten. Again, fine... they’d probably make it worse, anyway.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Randy staggered on his feet for a second. “Pour some sugar on me!” He laughed so hard at his own joke that it caused Gerald’s chest to heave with laughter in turn. “Just, you know, dump some of that grease on me, willya?”

"Heh, of course." Unscrewing the bottle, he poured some of the oil directly over Randy's shoulders. Part of this included rubbing it in, right? It wouldn't coat evenly if it dripped down his chest in back in specific places, after all. So he did what any reasonable person would do when they wanted a fair competition: he rubbed the oil over Randy's hair chest and back, careful not to make eye contact.

Randy _ moaned. _ Was that a moan? Maybe it was just a _ groan. _ God, Gerald hoped it was a groan and that Randy wasn’t...enjoying this. Except he also hoped, at least with his drunken brain, that Randy was _ into it. _ Either way, this was awkward, and it was made even more so when Randy grabbed the tin of oil with slicked-up hands, and splashed a bit of it over Gerald’s bald head before it slipped from his hands.

"_ Aw, she-iiiiit _," Randy exclaimed, a good twenty seconds after the container hit the ground. His response time just wasn't the best right now, which meant his hand-eye coordination was probably miserable as well. That didn't stop him from bending over to pick it up. 

The container slipped out of his hands a couple more times, like a moist bar of soap, and he even nearly fell over once, but fortunately he succeeded. Grip as firm as it could be, he returned his attention to Gerald, squirting him with more oil.

It was cold and... oily, and try as he might, he couldn't distract himself from how it felt having Randy rub his hands onto his scalp, over his neck. There was no gentleness to it, just sheer determination to get the oil all over, but...

"Is this how they do it in Turkey?"

"Yeah, totally."

While Gerald wasn’t one to argue with cultural traditions, that didn’t sound quite right to him. Then again, he doubted that traditional oil wrestling involved a kiddie pool and two drunk, middle-aged men in stretched-out y-fronts.

Randy took a second to give Gerald’s cheek a friendly pat before dumping the remainder of the olive oil into the plastic pool. “All right! Cowboy versus Indi— aw, shit, uh. That’s totally not PC, brah, I mean, uh. Cowboy versus. Sea... dolphin... guy. Let’s go!”

And, even though Gerald would be the first to admit that they were both shitfuck wasted, he had a moment of trepidation. This could end badly. Someone could get hurt. Or that weird Stotch boy down the street would record it from his bedroom window and put it online. Or...

“Aw, hell, let’s do this, man!” Gerald’s voice found itself before his mind could catch up, and, with a shared nod, then a brief, slick squeeze of each other’s shoulders, they stepped into the pool.

_ Wrasslin, _ as Randy kept calling it, wasn't quite easy to do when they were both slicked down like this. Gerald couldn't keep a firm grip on Randy at all: an attempt to grab at his shoulder had his hand sliding down Randy's forearm. The excess oil that dripped off of their bodies ensured that the floor of the pool was slick as well.

A single misstep meant that Randy was suddenly off-balance as he tried to grab at Gerald, and it was merely sheer luck that kept Randy from toppling over.

Well, in truth, it was his hands on Gerald's shoulders, but they were only there for but a moment before Randy was wrapping them around Gerald's torso in an attempt to lift him over his shoulder. Which didn't happen.

Instead, Gerald shoved him backwards. Panic danced across Randy’s face before he flung his arms out, catching himself just in time via the strongest grip he could manage on Gerald’s hips. 

“What the fuck, man!” Randy slurred, and attempted to shove Gerald back, to no avail— his hands were firmly laced together, locked behind Randy’s neck. 

“It’s _ wrasslin’, _ asshole, someone’s gotta go down first and it’s not gonna be me!”

Both men clung to another in an effort to keep themselves from falling, arms positioned in something akin to a couple of young teenagers at their first school dance. Gerald could feel his feet drifting apart, threatening the already flimsy structural integrity of the pool.

It was the worst kind of slip-n-slide: they were at a stalemate of sorts, unable and unwilling to let go of one another in fear of losing balance, their bare feet unable to sustain any semblance of traction. If they let go of each other, they'd undoubtedly lose balance. 

"Wanna see about that!" Randy's tone was a mix of drunken self-assuredness and hesitation, but all the same, he reached down to try to grab at the underside of Gerald's knee.

It was too much. 

Too slick, they were too drunk, and the oil on the bottom of the pool, combined with their obvious lack of balance did them over before Gerald could even see it coming. The split second it took for both men to crash to the bottom of the dirty, greasy, plastic pool felt like it lasted minutes. Gerald’s life practically flashed before his eyes as they toppled, and his hands clawed frantically at the air beside him for purchase, as if he were searching for a wall that he knew wasn’t there.

With a sound that was something between a squelch and a crunch, they fell, Gerald flopping flat onto Randy’s squishy stomach.

Gerald looked down at Randy. Randy looked up at Gerald. Was this it? Was this the moment where he was declared the winner? He was the one on top, after all, and didn't that mean something?

He was so sure he was going to say something. He was so sure that _ Randy _ was going to say something. But instead of uttering anything related to their match, Randy let out a drunken wail.

"_ Shaaaaaron! _"

Gerald scrambled away from Randy as quickly as he could, but the oil coating their bodies caused him to collide into Randy several times as he tried to get up, and an anguished, ear-splitting cry emitted from Randy’s mouth each time, echoing down their small street. Somewhere, Gerald heard a dog start barking.

“Aaaagh, my _ ass! _ Sharon! Sharon, I broke my _ ASS!” _

Writhing in the pool of olive oil, the dirt and grime that they hadn’t washed out of the plastic coating his greased-up skin like he was a chicken breast set to marinade, Randy curled into a fetal position the moment Gerald was able to heave himself over the lip of the pool.

All Gerald could do from the soft comfort of his friend’s lawn was watch the other man flop around, hear him cry out in pure anguish. Randy was wasted. Something had to be _ very _ painful in order for him to feel whatever happened to him.

“Uh, you alright?” Gerald asked, more as a formality than anything else.

Randy screwed up his face, placing a hand on his tailbone, and screeched for Sharon once more. But inside the Marsh residence, Gerald caught in his eye the telltale flash of a curtain being drawn, and watched as the light in Randy and Sharon’s bedroom window was switched off.

Sharon couldn’t save him today.


End file.
